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As many of you know, I’m moving my writing to a new blog, Chelsea Processing, which I will officially launch later this week (yay/eek!).

After giving it a lot of thought, I’ve decided not to migrate my Cute Girl With a Banjo content over to the new site. Truthfully, I need a fresh start. It doesn’t feel right combining the two projects. It’s time for me to let CGWB rest.

The good news is, all of this site’s content will be sticking around for the foreseeable future.

Note to WordPress followers: you will be migrated over to Chelsea Processing this week. New posts should show up in your RSS feed. However, because I’m moving to a self-hosted WordPress site, you will no longer receive emails when I publish posts. If you’d like to receive emails and other exclusives from me, please sign up here.

Thank you for supporting Cute Girl With a Banjo. I’ve grown and learned so much through the experience of writing this blog. I feel an immense sadness that it must come to an end, yet I know it’s time.

I didn’t intend to take a year off from blogging. I intended to take a little break and pick things up where I left off; fired up, finding my voice, setting the world on fire. In no particular order.

But life happened. The 2016 election triggered memories I’d never been ready to deal with before. My brain not-so-gently reminded me that we have a lot of work to do to get healthy. Long-buried past traumas seized me, and grabbed me by the throat. I broke down, and realized I needed professional help; that despite my best efforts to heal, I’d really only scratched the surface.

Just two weeks later, I was laid off from my job of 5 years; a corporate restructuring that left me in the dust. It was nothing personal, of course, but it certainly got me terrified about my future.

I had no idea how I was going to move forward with my life. My brain seemed like it was turning on me, and the security of my stable income was washing out with the tide.

Faced with massive uncertainty and self-doubt, I retreated.

I got myself into treatment for PTSD. I found a kind, patient therapist who runs a local mind-body wellness center. She gave me a safe place to unpack my past, little by little, and also taught me to stop giving so much power to it.

I learned to set boundaries with myself and others. I learned to observe my thoughts. I learned to stay silent and pay attention when what I really wanted to do was to set myself on fire and scream my head off.

With new tools and lessons tucked under my belt, I struck out on my own as a freelance writer/researcher/producer. Taking the leap was almost as scary as getting help, but ultimately led me to more opportunity and career fulfillment than I ever could have dreamed of. Today, I’m getting paid to work on dream projects I would never have had space for if I’d still been at my corporate job.

It was excruciating and beautiful in equal measure. I blossomed in totally unexpected ways.

With all of this amazing processing and learning happening, I wanted to write. But blogging became too cumbersome. Not because I wasn’t thinking or saying anything worth writing, but because I was in a sacred space: I was doing the work for me and no one else.

My inner voice told me to hold back for the moment; to get my bearings so I could come back stronger than ever. I wasn’t ready to share the many lessons I was learning through treatment and the rediscovery of my own life.

Now I am.

And I’ve realized I am ready for a change. I’m not the cute girl with a banjo I was when I started this blog, hoping for it to be a fun place for my musings. Don’t get me wrong, the banjo is still around (I’m currently covering the entirety of Taylor Swift’s reputation, because I am nothing if not consistently extra). But the cute girl? She has grown into a fierce woman who is a force to be reckoned with.

So, I’m very excited to announce that in the coming weeks, I will be migrating this blog to its new identity, Chelsea Processing. The content will still be much of the same; writings on grief, healing, social issues, pop culture and more. I will continue documenting my path to higher self, and may even introduce some other cool multimedia stuff, too.

What does this mean for readers and subscribers? The good news is, if the migration process goes correctly on my end (fingers crossed I don’t mess this up!), very little will change for you. If you’re a subscriber, you should still get updates, only they’ll be from Chelsea Processing instead of Cute Girl With a Banjo. The old content will still be available for viewing on the new site, and I will do my best to make sure all old links redirect to their new home on ChelseaProcessing.com.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for your love, loyalty and support over these past 5 years with Cute Girl With a Banjo. You all helped make this experience incredibly joyful and fulfilling, and for that, I’m eternally grateful.

I’m feeling better and stronger than ever, and I’m so incredibly excited to keep moving on this journey.

Just over a year ago, I had my first sit down with my trainer, Coretta. Through my tears, I told her that I had gained 40 pounds since my mother died, and could no longer recognize myself. Depression and a string of injuries had made it impossible for me to train like I always had; as an elite athlete. Not to mention, years of vacillating between extreme calorie restriction and binging had wreaked havoc on my metabolism. I was constantly in pain, and terrified of losing control of my health and dying far too young, like my mother. As much as it pained me to admit, I needed help.

I was nearing my 30th birthday, and was having so many joint problems that I honestly didn’t know what I could even do in the gym anymore. I knew my body needed activity. I knew that getting stronger would improve my mental and physical well-being. But all of my favorite workouts (basketball, soccer, rugby, spinning, and running) were off the table. I hated the gym and resented working out for any reason other than to improve my performance on the field. No longer being an athlete was (and remains) a sore subject for me, and I was resistant to accept that I would need to find a way to love fitness without playing sports.

As soon as Coretta said the words, “it sounds like it’s time to get back to you,” I knew I was in good hands. I had hope.

In the past, I would have jumped immediately into strict “clean eating,” and exercising 6 days a week. Most of my previous weight loss efforts have involved punishing my body by beating it into shape. Those efforts were driven by an external goal — a number on the scale that I randomly deemed my “ideal.”

This time, I started my training out slowly, doing two days per week: one day in the pool and one day on the floor. At first, I hated the pool. “That’s for old ladies!” I would exclaim, with an air of superiority. I wanted the floor. I wanted to lift heavy! I wanted to get immediately back to being the athlete I once was.

But wants and needs are two different things. “You need the water,” Coretta insisted. “You need to recover and build the foundation for bigger things. You need to walk before you run.”

I was a reluctant grasshopper, but I trusted in her deep knowledge and kind heart so much that I fought my (terrible) instincts and followed her instructions. My inner self-judging perfectionist was screaming at me to do more, to push harder, to kill myself to be thin if I had to. But in my heart, I knew that slow and steady would win.

Over the months, I began to shift my perspective and started viewing working out as self-care; one of the most loving things I could do for myself, rather than a punishment for being too large. I have learned to LOVE going to the gym, and the feeling of strength and balance that it affords me. I have learned that maintaining a love of fitness isn’t about before and afters — it’s about the journey, and celebrating every single little gain along the way. I stopped beating myself up with the “shoulds” and started listening to myself instead. My workouts with Coretta became non-negotiable me-time, rather than just another appointment to keep on my calendar. I’ve slowly added more days at the gym each week, and have even incorporated yoga (an exercise I previously deemed “not intense enough” for me), which has helped me tune in and listen to my body.

What a difference a year makes. Today, Coretta had me running sprints for the first time since I started this quest of getting back to me. I should be able to play sports again quite soon, which I’m really looking forward to. But even if I could never play sports again, I am amazed at how much I have learned and how far I have come. I am now the strongest I have ever been (yes, including when I was a college athlete) and I have never been healthier. My joints feel a thousand times better. My resting heart rate is down a whopping 20 BPM from this time last year. And most importantly: I have stopped trying to disappear.

The funny thing is that I haven’t lost a pound. I have lost inches and body fat percentages and a pants size, but not a single pound. The lack of movement on the scale has been very frustrating and discouraging at times, especially when I’m doing everything “right” and still don’t see the numbers drop. My exasperation is compounded when I see friends posting their incredible before-and-after transformations on social media. But one of the biggest lessons that this whole experience has taught me is to stop looking over my shoulder at everybody else and to look within me. Their success is not my failure. Everyone’s journey is different. Every body has different needs. I am only hurting ME by holding myself to ridiculous standards and comparing myself to others. That is what got me into this mess of abusing myself in the first place!

So today, I choose to compare myself to where I was a year ago, and more importantly, to celebrate how far I have come. As I was stretching after my workout, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and for the first time in years, I saw the “me” that I recognize: tall, broad-shouldered, beautiful and strong.

Ever since my best friend’s wedding in early July, I have felt the tug. The tug is a constant nagging reminder that I must move forward; must make something major happen in my life. What is that something, exactly?

I have no idea.

Perhaps watching my best friend take a major step in her life propelled me to think I should be doing the same. Or perhaps the tug has been lying dormant in me for a long while, pushed down to the depths of my subconscious to be dealt with at a later date. All I know for sure is that it’s there, and that it can’t be ignored. It’s always tugging.

For the better part of my life — ages 2 through 25 — I was a student, which was rather simple. My goals were clear: to graduate and to find employment. Outside of graduating from college and law school, the only other tangible #lifegoals I can ever remember having were: to move to New York City, to find someone to love, to write, and to eventually move to the beach. Check, check, check and check.

Now what?

I guess I never considered the fact that I might accomplish my major milestone goals by 30. Or that my “life goals” were not very specific or ambitious (unlike the adorably unrealistic goals I used to set for myself in my journal, like “I vow to lose 4,000 pounds in the next 3 weeks!” or, “I will become fluent in Spanish by the new year — two months left is plenty of time!”).

So, I decided to take some time to reflect on where I’m at and where I’d like to go. All summer long, I have allowed myself the luxury of stillness. I haven’t written much, or accomplished much at all, other than the usual work and chores around the house.

I swam in the ocean almost every day, convinced that the salt water would invigorate my mind and pull me from my stupor. I went for long walks in the woods and did yoga, and even tried meditation after years of resisting the very idea of it. I thought if I could just learn to listen to myself without the judgment of my critical inner voice, I might understand where the tug was coming from.

No such luck. At least not yet.

In some ways, it’s extremely frustrating to feel like I am falling behind, when there is no good reason for it. The reality is that I’m doing just fine. I’m happy and healthy. I’m in a long-term relationship with an incredibly supportive partner. I have two perfect little fur-babies, a good job, a beautiful apartment 4 blocks from the beach, many friends who love me deeply for who I am, a family who always comes to visit, and a blog with engaged readers who put up with my endless and often insufferable philosophizing. By most accounts, I’m living the dream! (Permission to want to punch me in my face for even listing these things out, or thinking they’re not enough: GRANTED.)

Maybe the lesson in all of this is that I must learn to appreciate my life as it is, and to stop itching for something more.

As frustrating as the tug can be, it is also an extraordinary gift. I’m slowly learning to let go of all of the pressure and expectations I put on myself and others. Instead, I’m choosing to listen — really listen — to my own inner voice, and the whispers of the world around me. In doing so, I am humbled. I haven’t figured it all out, and that is ok. I will never figure it all out. There will probably always be another tug of discontentment right around the corner.

In the meantime, I think I will take one more swim in the ocean today, and revel in the joy of being exactly where I always hoped I would be.

——

Readers: have you experienced the tug lately? How have you dealt with it?

I have a confession to make. Despite the fact that my mother dying of a freak stroke was one of the most traumatic and world-shattering things to happen to me to date, there is another side to my grief. A side I don’t normally share with others, because it’s ugly and taboo.

Here it goes: My mother’s death gave me a freedom I have never known before.

Let me explain. It’s true that she was my closest confidant, my guiding light and my biggest fan. But it’s also true that she had expectations of me. Many, many expectations.

I spent my entire life with a critical eye watching carefully over my every move. I felt my failures keenly, as my mother tsk-tsked me over a B+ or shook her head at me from the stands of a basketball game where I only hit 40% of my shots. “USE YOUR LEGS!” she would mouth furiously at me from her seat, as I tried desperately to keep my cool. Despite every coach I ever had begging me to stop looking constantly at my mother, I never did learn.

Nothing ever seemed good enough for her. A 3.7 GPA was good, but probably could have been a 4.0 if I’d just put in a little more effort. Losing 15 pounds on a crash diet was great, but if only I could lose 10 more, I’d really be in good shape. Scoring 17 points was a solid way to finish a basketball game, but if only I’d hit one more three, I could finally be on college-recruitement lists.

Needless to say, I had (have? Ok, ok HAVE) a complex. My inability to rip my eyes away from the bleachers really did a number on me. My entire life, I have felt less than; inadequate and unable to reach my supposedly limitless potential. And while I’m sure my mother was pushing me for “the right reasons,” her actions still shook my confidence, and had me questioning whether I would ever be good enough.

Meanwhile, if you asked anyone else in town, I was her golden child who could do no wrong. She bragged about me constantly. This dichotomy never ceased to amaze (or confound!) me.

All of that is to say that I always felt her judgment, even when she didn’t say a word. Take my writing, for example. I knew that my mother thought I was a great writer. But for some reason, I always felt that she didn’t believe I could — or should — make a career out of it. She never said so explicitly, and she never even came close to telling me which career path I should choose. Her fallback mantra was always, “I just want you to be happy.” But I never believed her. I never felt free. I always felt like I needed to take a certain path — one that would lead me to traditional success; one she could brag about and hold up as her own parenting win.

It’s also quite possible that a lot of that perceived scorn and judgment from her was in my head. Maybe I just watched too many 80’s and 90’s teen movies where the characters rebelled against their parents’ school/career expectations for them, and went to art school to follow their passions instead.

I was always envious of those singularly driven passion-followers. I chose the other path, the “practical” path and lived to make someone else happy. I now have two marketable degrees, and an endless pile of student debt that keeps me up at night. And the person that I did it all to impress isn’t even here anymore.

So, I’m free now. I’m free to pursue my dreams, and to write about whatever I want. I no longer have to fear the judgment of the only person whom I ever really wanted to make proud. And that’s really incredible, in some ways!

Sometimes, my newfound freedom makes me soar. It makes me feel limitless. Like, there’s nobody I have to please but myself. I can do whatever I want in this world and I only have to answer to me.

But other times, it’s just exhausting. Some days, I just wish I had my mommy to call up. I miss her guidance and support. Her earthly presence made me feel like I didn’t have to have every single thing in my life figured out. No matter how old I got, I was free to be a child with her. Now, it’s all on me; no coach, no scapegoat. My driving force is gone, and that can be pretty terrifying. Hence, my inertia as of late.

All the time!

Freedom is a bit tricky in that way. You are free to pursue your dreams, but you’re also free to do nothing at all — to never move forward; to never try.

I’m not sure how to overcome the paralyzing fear that seems built into my brain, or how to drown out my inner critic, which sounds suspiciously like my mother. But I do know that ultimately, this is all within my control. It is my choice: I’m free to fly, and risk falling, or stay on the ground where it’s safe.

How I choose to move forward is what matters. I hope I will choose to fly.

I’m sick of scrolling, and likes, and hearts, and hahas, and wows, and favorites.

I’m sick of elaborate pregnancy announcements, and 800-like engagements, and incredible before-and-afters and endless go-fund-me’s, all while I struggle to figure out what my “plan” should be, or whether it’s worth even having one when life always seems to intervene and destroy it anyway.

I’m sick of everything being a photo shoot, and pictures of perfect yoga poses in idyllic locations, and hot dog legs on beaches and photo editing apps that make human beings look creepily moonlit, like the Veelas from Harry Potter.

I’m sick of the highlight reel of everyone’s lives; the equivalent of a braggy family holiday newsletter, but instead, one that blasts off every goddamn day, causing everybody looking on to feel inadequate.

I’m sick of the depression, the insecurity, and the addiction to positive reinforcement, where I feel like a failure if one of my articles doesn’t perform well.

I’m sick of everybody “doing it for the ‘gram” and ignoring me while I speak because they need to check their feeds…

And of restaurants who put food on artfully collected slabs and in weird containers, so their patrons will share social media pictures.

I’m sick of friggin’ mason jars.

I’m sick of the non-ironic usage of hashtags while I’m interacting person-to-person, and even more sick of the fact that I do it too.

I’m sick of shameless clickbait, and flawlessly-crafted viral videos.

I’m sick of algorithms, and formulating shitty headlines to get more clicks, more engagement, more bullshit.

I’m sick of writing thinkpieces.

I’m sick of thinkpieces, generally. And thinkpieces about thinkpieces. And thinkpieces about thinkpieces about thinkpieces. And the entire circle-jerk of opinions that fire off just for clicks, just for ad revenue; just to agitate us social media addicts for money.

I’m sick of playing into it all with my outrage; my engagement.

I’m sick of every handpicked media story-of-the-moment being beaten to death within a 12-hour cycle — before I’ve even had a chance to process what it all means or to collect my thoughts to write my own goddamn thinkpiece.

I’m sick of everybody feeling like they need to make a public statement after every single noteworthy event happens — it’s like millions of miniature self-run PR departments kicking off into gear every time there is a mass shooting or huge political happening, or a celebrity dies.

I’m sick of feeling like I need to participate in this minute-by-minute word vomit, and of the fear that I will never be a successful writer if I don’t.

I’m sick of performing, and of feeling like I need to become a “personal brand,” and seeing writers and creators I love and respect having to feed the content-creation beast 24/7.

I’m sick of being so drowned in voices that I don’t even recognize my own anymore.

I’m sick of being “on” all the time.

I’m sick of writing “sorry for the delayed response” every time I don’t reply to someone within twenty minutes.

I’m sick of my aching elbow and hand reminding me that I spend my life staring at a screen; for work, for social life, for news, for entertainment.

I’m sick of only feeling fully alive every once in a while, when I am out of cell service range and am finally free of all the expectations and “conveniences” of modern life.

Sigh. Another day, another rape controversy, right? This week, comedian and Inside Amy Schumer writer Kurt Metzger found himself in hot water with all of us hyper-reactionary Social Justice Warriors when he went on a social media tirade, claiming that internet “lynch mobs” and vigilante justice are now taking the place of going to the police in the wake of sexual assault.

All of this started after several women came forward to the Upright Citizens Brigade (UCB) and claimed they had been sexually assaulted by fellow improv comedian Aaron Glaser. The UCB ran an internal investigation, and found the claims credible. Thus, they decided to ban Glaser for life. You know, similar to how women might approach an employer about sexual harassment at the office. Anyway, once word started getting around about Glaser, a few other comedy clubs also banned the comic. Glaser denied the accusations in now-deleted Facebook posts and called the bans and subsequent public outcry a “witch hunt.”

In comes Metzger, the bold “truthteller” that he is. He posted several Facebook and Twitter updates, railing on “rape trial by social media.” According to Kurt, there is only one “correct” way to deal with rape — by going immediately to the police. If you don’t go to the police, you apparently forfeit your right to speak about your rape, or to do anything to make your workplace or your community more comfortable and safe for women. I’m not going to give his rhetoric a place here on my blog, because it was intentionally inflammatory and hateful, and obviously meant to draw more ears to his podcast. If you’re interested in reading his incoherent rantings that started the controversy, you can here, here, here, here, and here.